by Dave Duncan
She had as few words of Castilian as Toby of Catalan. Speech could help little, but shiny red lips and dark eyes said everything.
"Are you finding any, senor?"
"No. A few."
She knelt to search among the leaves. In a moment she said something excited and beckoned him. When he squatted to see, she popped a raisin in his mouth. Her eyes again, the smile, her hand on his thigh ...
He stood up and shook his head. "Not me, senorita. Try Jaume."
She glared at him and caught his wrist, trying to pull him down beside her. He walked away, conscious of sweat, the oppressive heat, the pounding of his heart. He despised himself for them and the lingering tingle in his loins. Were all men so easily tempted, or was he a weakling? How did other men keep their self-control in such situations?
Many didn't, he supposed. He was not the only bastard in the world.
He paced around, afraid to settle. Guard duty was more interesting at night, when a single cracking twig might be the only warning. Here, the empty landscape made it too easy. There was no sign of the don—had he left his new deputy in charge, or did he hope to catch him neglecting his duty? What disaster had brought a hidalgo to such penury that he could afford no better arms than discards and no squire except an old man with crippled feet?
Seeing that Eulalia had returned to the senora, he went back to the vineyard and scavenged some more. Later he saw a chicken in the undergrowth and spent time stalking it. It would not have survived so long had it not learned to be wary, and it eluded him. He did not waken Hamish. He had never intended to keep his promise.
When he went to the well for a drink, he found Gracia there in her widow's weeds, still wearing the bottle that proclaimed her delusions. She was not as tall as Eulalia, and her face was less striking, but lovely enough. So fragile! She was delicate, she had suffered, she was not perfectly sane by the world's standards. One look at her and her sheer vulnerability made him want to clasp her in his arms and swear to defend her against anything for ever. She was much more dangerous than Eulalia.
Just one kiss? There need be no seduction, no false promises, just a moment of mutual tenderness in a world unbearably harsh.
No, not one.
"Senor, a favor?"
"If I can, senora."
She clutched the absurd bottle in both hands. "This brings questions."
How surprising! "Yes?"
She raised her chin as she did when she spoke of her mission to the dead. "My voices tell me that it will be safe with you, senor. Will you put it in your pack and carry it for me?"
It couldn't weigh much, one empty bottle. "Of course. I am honored to be trusted with it, because I know how much you value it."
She smiled again and lifted the cord over her head. He took it and hung it around his.
Fortunately he had very good reflexes. He caught the bottle before it hit the ground. Then he straightened up to face dismay that became astonishment that instantly turned to fear. She backed away, staring at him like a cornered fawn. The knots had untied themselves? No, the hob had untied them. Why should the hob object to an empty bottle?
Because it wasn't empty? He felt the hairs on his nape lift.
There was no use trying to think up some prosaic explanation. "It would seem, senora, that the wraiths do not approve of me as a guardian." He thrust the bottle at her quickly, lest it wriggle snakelike out of his hands. "Come with me and put it in Diego's pack. It will be safe with him."
"But ... ? But why? How did that happen?"
"You saw what I saw." He shrugged. "I have a sort of curse on me, senora. The wraiths may not approve of me, but I am sure that they will not find fault with my friend."
"Curse?"
"Senora, what would happen if I told the Inquisition that you hear voices and gather the ghosts of the dead?"
Her lips curled back from her teeth in terror. "You will not!"
"Of course I will not. And you will not tell them about my curse! We are companions, friends. Now we share each other's secrets." After all, they were both crazy. She collected the dead, he had visions. Lunatics should stick together.
"What is this curse?" she asked uncertainly.
"It is a long story, and painful. It is why I go on pilgrimage."
She thought he meant the tutelary at Montserrat, of course. He was thinking of Oreste's relentless pursuit. He reassured her, pointing out that no evil had come to her in the last few days while she was in his company. He took her over to the place where Hamish was still snoring, and together they wrapped the bottle securely in Hamish's blanket and put it in his pack with the books.
6
When he saw the don and his squire riding down from their knoll, Toby went around the camp and wakened the pilgrims. Pepita was already alert, combing her hair; she jumped up and followed him, all big bright eyes and serious.
"Senor ... " She tried to say "Longdirk" and stumbled over it.
"Call me Toby."
"Senor Toby." She spoke very solemnly. "I asked Brother Bernat why I saw two of you and he said that that was a very bad thing to say about anyone and I must tell you I was sorry and promise you I would never tell anyone else."
He smiled down at her—a long way down, for the top of her head barely reached his ribs. "Then I thank you and accept your promise. Did he tell you why you see two of me, though?"
She pouted. "No. He said I will understand later, and perhaps you could see two of me."
"No, just one. But it's a very pretty one."
She liked that. He wanted to ask more questions, but it seemed unfair to interrogate a child. He would have a talk with her sharp-eyed guardian.
"Are you going to catch the horses, Senor Toby? I can help! I'm very good with horses."
She certainly was. She walked up to each of Senora Collel's three in turn, took hold of its halter, then led it to Toby. He was certain they would not have been so cooperative for him. She demonstrated how the chairs and their footboards were secured to the pack saddles and explained earnestly how important it was that the folding stepladder be the last thing loaded on the packhorse, so that it would be available for the ladies to mount and dismount.
Then the two of them went to help Josep, whose bumbling efforts to catch the Brusi horses had put them to flight. He had gone around behind them and was driving them back toward the casa, but they were still at liberty, staying well ahead of him. Pepita walked out to meet them and they surrendered to her with no arguments.
Josep arrived after them, hot and ashamed. He was not only inexperienced, he was obviously nervous of the big teeth and feet. Pepita's complete lack of fear could not be helping his feelings, although he thanked her graciously enough.
"I am better with ledgers, Captain," he muttered, red-faced.
"Each to his own. Figures terrify me. Let's go and steal some of the mule's load."
"Oh ... I have not yet asked my father's permission, Captain."
"Call me Toby. If he doesn't like it. he'll have to take care of the matter himself. I need you to interpret for me. Pepita, you go back to Brother Bernat now."
"Why?"
Because there might be trouble.
"Because you need to put your hair up."
Pepita flounced off angrily. Toby led one of the packhorse over to the Rafael-and-Miguel group, who had just managed to drive Thunderbolt into a corner, where he was being difficult, with hooves flying. Josep explained their intentions in a rapid stream of Catalan, and the peasants grew difficult also. Their surly faces dark with suspicion, they shouted that they did not trust offers of free transportation, they did not trust Senor Brusi or foreigners. They did not trust anyone. The tall one with the big nose was Rafael, the burly one with the long black beard was Miguel. The women were still unnamed.
Handing Josep the horse's bridle while the argument continued to rage, Toby pushed his way in and soothed the mule. Thunderbolt was not quite willing to be friends but reserved judgment on being an enemy, since the stranger had
not yet piled any mountains on him. He let Toby lead him over to the waiting heap of goods. The onlookers were impressed. The men stopped carping to watch and the women switched from strident to grumble.
Inspecting the pile, Toby saw that the problem was simpler than he had realized. A bundle of ash-wood staves would no doubt prove very useful when these poor folk were struggling to reestablish their living, but carrying such a load through this dangerous countryside was sheer insanity. The same went for three empty wineskins.
"Josep, did they start out with all this clutter, or have they been doing a little selective looting?"
The youngster grinned. "A bit of both. The barrel appeared two days ago."
"Well, will you explain to them that we must make all possible speed, that we are running short of food, that every day on the road increases our danger of being set upon by brigands, and that brigands, if any do attack us, will strip us of everything and either kill us or leave us naked?"
While the translation was in progress, Toby selected a weighty bundle of tools and implements and loaded that on the Brusi horse. He added a bag of meal and a bulky sack that smelled of onions. Rafael tried to stop the food being taken, Toby jostled him aside with a warning glare.
That, he decided, was enough ransom to put into the avaricious grasp of Salvador Brusi, but there was still too much left. He picked up the oaken barrel. Even empty, it was weighty.
"Ask them why they need this."
All four responded with shrill protests that it was valuable.
Toby lifted it overhead, smashed it down on a rock, and then it wasn't.
He halted Rafael's attack by placing a very large fist in front of his nose. Rafael backed off, but Miguel tried to lash at him with a whip. Toby jabbed him in the belly—gently by his standards, but enough to put him down. With shrieks that were probably audible in Barcelona, the women sprang forward, claws out, so he drew his sword. That restored order for a moment; but when he slashed the three wineskins and cut the rope around the bundle of staves, all four of them came for him, and he had to threaten them with it. Even young Brusi looked totally appalled at this method of doing business.
"Josep, tell them that all this junk must stay where it is. The rest they can load, but if their mule won't keep up, I will cut its throat and roast it for supper."
He led off the packhorse, leaving the argument still raging. As he was loading the Brusi chattels, the old man came wandering over to watch, making no effort to help. He had been watching.
"You expect me to transport those goods, senor?"
"I do."
"At what price?"
"None whatsoever."
The merchant frowned. "I do not see that their trouble is my concern."
Toby paused to wipe sweat from his forehead. "It is my concern because I am trying to get you all safely to Barcelona. Speed is vital. It is your concern for the same reason. If I can't make you cooperate, then we are probably not going to arrive before we starve. The country is barren, senor. All this gold you carry won't buy you one dried fig."
Brusi's eyes narrowed at the mention of gold. When spoken by a man with a sword in a lawless land, the remark was close to a threat. Toby gave him a cryptic smile and went back to work, while the old man watched with his wrinkles scrunched down in a glare.
As Josep approached, his father said, "I could use a man like you in my business."
Astonished, Toby took another look at him. "You are gracious, senor. What have I done to merit such praise?"
The withered lips curled in a sneer. "It is not what you have done I value, it is the breadth of your shoulders. You are as strong as two ordinary men. Good porters are hard to find."
"The senor is very kind!" Toby snapped. "You can finish up here."
He stalked away, seething. It wasn't just that people saw him as a chunk of brawn that annoyed him, it was the knowledge that porters' work was all he was good for. Or bullying destitute peasants, and he could not have managed that so easily if he were a normal size.
Heading to waken Hamish and tell him that he was now custodian of the bottle, he was intercepted by the don on his destrier. He saluted. The arrogant eyes surveyed his sweat-soaked condition.
"You show promise, Captain."
That was an improvement! "I only seek to do my duty, senor."
"Of course. We shall move out in five minutes. Have the band start playing." The don wheeled his horse and rode off.
Toby resisted a strong temptation to make an obscene gesture at his retreating back. But he did get them all moving in five minutes, with a rather bleary-eyed Hamish trotting out in front as scout and Toby himself at the rear to make sure the wrecked barrel and other debris were left where they belonged. He was pleased to see that the mule was now in a better mood, which was certainly not true of its owners. As they showed no signs of wanting to chat with him and help him improve his Catalan, he went by them and caught up with the women. The train was moving faster than before, although everyone was now rested, so the improvement might not last.
Gracia was still riding the little piebald, and thus Eulalia was walking, seeming somewhat footsore already. She turned her head so she need not look at the despicable foreigner. Another improvement!
Swaying in her horse-borne throne, Senora Collel appraised him as if she were considering buying him but found the asking price ridiculous. "Come round this side," she said sternly. "Senora de Gomez, you ride on ahead. Go with her, Eulalia. I wish to speak with this man."
Toby moved into position alongside her skirts and well-shod feet. Bent under his pack, he had trouble looking up at her face, but then it was not a face he wanted to spend much time on, all sagging flesh and ingrained paint Tiny dewdrops of perspiration glistened in her mustache. She carried a red silk fan, which she wielded vigorously every few minutes, causing her palfrey to flicker its ears in alarm.
"You speak French, monsieur?"
Surprised, he said. "A little, madame."
"Your young friend told me of your travels. I, too, have visited Aquitaine."
"You are a lady of culture, madame."
"I am a very nosy one. I want to know why that Gomez woman was carrying that bottle and what she has done with it. She will not discuss it, and neither will the boy."
"Jaume has it in his pack now. Her tale is a sad one, madame."
Senora Collel evidenced satisfaction. "Then you may tell it at length."
Toby racked his brains. Hamish would be better at this than he would—why had he not invented some useful fiction?
"The lady was married very young."
"Obviously. Come to the point."
"Her husband was killed in the war, and her infant sons also."
"That does not explain why she wears a bottle around her neck."
Keep it simple. "Ah, but it does. It was the last gift her husband gave her, on the night they bade farewell. She has sworn never to be parted from it, as a memorial of him."
"That is all?"
"That is all, madame."
"How ridiculous! Foolish child. She will find another man soon enough, or one will find her. She is charming is she not?"
Toby risked an upward glance at the formidable senora. He had known sergeants-at-arms who would have looked prettier in her fancy gown. "Very."
"You did not sleep during the siesta break, Monsieur Longdirk?"
"The don left me on guard, madame."
"The don is a madman. We are safer now we have you. Eulalia slipped away, thinking I would not notice. She returned in a very brief time and in a very petulant mood."
"May it be that the mademoiselle suffers from constipation?"
The reply was a bark of coarse laughter that almost spooked the horse and made Gracia look around in alarm. "I don't think her problem was anything like that in the least. You and Madame Gomez are lovers?"
"No, madame." He accompanied the words with a warning scowl, but scowls bounced off Senora Collel like sleet off a limestone gargoyle.
Her eyes gleamed. "Why not? From the way she looks at you, she is yours for the taking."
That deserved no answer. He peered behind him at the mule and its mulish guardians, then forward, all the way to the don at the front. The company was moving well and staying together. He could trust Hamish to do a good job of scouting.
"Now it is my turn to ask some questions, madame, yes? Tell me about Monsieur Brusi."
She waved her fan dismissively. "Very rich, very powerful in Barcelona, a member of the Council of One Hundred. A dangerous enemy, Tobias."
"I seek no enemies, madame."
"You may have made one already in that man. He sucks life from other people. His wife hanged herself seventeen years ago. If that son of his does not escape from his father's shadow soon, he will never blossom."
Nothing surprising there. Toby had already reached the same opinion of Josep. "Father Guillem?"
The senora glanced down at him warily. "A preacher, an acolyte in the greatest sanctuary in Catalonia, indeed in all Aragon, and probably a senior one. So a pious man and probably a very learned one."
Had the renowned gossip learned no more than that?
"I think I knew that, madame, and I think he does"
She chuckled, an ominous sound. "Very likely."
"And Brother Bernat?"
Surprisingly, this time there was a longer pause, a glance even more guarded. She frowned. She glanced around, although there was no one within earshot and they were still speaking French.
"I have only suspicions, Tobias."
He did not like her use of his given name; here it implied an intimacy he had no wish for. But he did want to hear her suspicions. "Tell me those, Madame Collel, and I shall remember that they are only suspicions."
Her smile of broken, yellow fangs would strike dread into the bravest. "Why is an old man traveling with a tender child, hmm? Tell me that!"
"I cannot. There may be good reasons."
"There may be very evil reasons, also!" she said triumphantly.